


Back In My Body

by littledaybreaker



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, the triumphant return of mistress Yasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker
Summary: "These people have made her feel like their family, like she belongs with them, and with most of them, she is surprised to discover that it was easy. They want her there, make her feel like she belongs, when she's never belonged anywhere, has drifted as a singular entity from place to place for so long that she's forgotten what the word means.Beau is different. Beau is more complicated. A wild force of nature, an entity unto herself. Yasha finds herself wanting always to be drawn into the force of her storm (a metaphor she knows Beau would delight in), but even with all the power she holds, always ending up on the outside."or, wherein Yasha sorts out her feelings, gives Beau a poem, and then they have nice sex with feelings involved (tm).
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88





	Back In My Body

**Author's Note:**

> No betas, we die like men (tm).
> 
> This takes place in a SLIGHTLY alternative timeline strictly for narrative purposes, only in the sense that I took creative liberties with the timing and delivery of the poem, but that doesn't significantly impact anything. Anyway. My favourite useless sapphics continue to occupy all of my brain space and every single song on my playlist!!! 
> 
> I've felt that Back In My Body had a Yasha vibe for a while and this went through a few iterations before we landed here. I wanted to explore the softer and more vulnerable aspects of their relationship, but also give them the intimacy they deserve.

_ All along the highway there’s a tiny whispering sound _

_ Saying I could find you in the dark of any town _

_ But all that I am hearing in the poem of my mind  _

_ Are silent twisted words finding their way in every line _

_ This time I know I’m fighting _

_ This time I know I’m fighting _

_ Lost you in the border town of anywhere _

_ Found myself while I was going everywhere _

_ I’m back in my body _

~Maggie Rogers

There had only ever been one person Yasha had ever brought flowers. 

When she closes her eyes at night, the image of Zuala is still bright and clear. A vision so vivid, bright and real that she feels like she could reach out and touch her; wakes up with her cheeks wet with tears from the fruitless task of having tried. Every dream feels like it carries with it a message, and the message is always the same: _ don’t give up on me yet.  _

For a long time that felt easy; because what else did she have? Zuala had been almost everything; anything else had been inconsequential or abandoned entirely. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected  _ Beau.  _

These people have made her feel like their family, like she belongs with them, and with most of them, she is surprised to discover that it was easy. They  _ want _ her there, make her feel like she belongs, when she's never belonged anywhere, has drifted as a singular entity from place to place for so long that she's forgotten what the word means. 

Beau is different. Beau is more complicated. A wild force of nature, an entity unto herself. Yasha finds herself wanting always to be drawn into the force of her storm (a metaphor she knows Beau would delight in), but even with all the power she holds, always ending up on the outside. 

What's worse is that Beau doesn't seem to notice; if she notices, she doesn't seem to care. Sometimes Yasha thinks they're getting somewhere, thinks the circular dance may be reaching its inevitable conclusion, and then Beau backs off like it means nothing to her. It is the great mystery of Beau: women seem as disposable to her as anything else in her life. They are useful to her until they are not, and then she is done with them. And Yasha does not want to be disposed of any longer. 

At first it seems pointless, a waste of time and energy that could better be used on other things. On people who aren't going to throw her away when they're finished with whatever business they have with her. Like Jester, who asks: 

"What do you plan on doing with all those flowers, anyway?" 

Jester has a sweet, open face like a little girl, and she asks the question so innocently that Yasha doesn't have time to be defensive. She simply contemplates the flowers she has in front of her, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and selects one in a rich, deep blue that matches Jester's hair, pressing it into the palm of her hand. "It's for my wife," she explains. "For her grave." 

Jester is flushed purple, pleased with the gift, pleased to be chosen for something so special. "You really loved her," she says, thoughtful. 

"I love her," Yasha corrects. "In the present."

Jester puts the flower behind her ear and fluffs her hair, and Yasha smiles. Jester radiates sunshine from inside of her--you can't help it. "Well," she says, "I think she would think it was okay if you love someone else in the present, too. I think she wouldn't want you to suffer anymore. You got enough of that, you know?" 

Yasha hesitates, watches Jester out of the corner of her eye for a moment before turning to face her. "Beau…" she begins, and then falters. 

Jester smiles in such a way that Yasha feels like she's told a joke, even though she hasn't. "Beau's tricky," she says after a moment. "Beau's  _ very  _ tricky. But I know that inside of all of that tricky is somebody who really, really wants somebody to love them a lot." When Jester glances toward Yasha's pile of flowers, she knows it's more than a coincidence. "And you can trust me on that!" 

Yasha supposes she can't argue with that. 

Over the next while, Yasha searches for signs that this might be true, analyzing every move that Beau makes. But it seems to be the same dance as always; Beau pulling her in close and then pushing her away, making the ghost of the old familiar rage boil up inside of her, twisting her up, making her ask herself:  _ is this worth the fight?  _ She didn't have to fight for Zuala. Not in this way, anyway. This part had been as easy as breathing; a soft and tender and natural thing. Yasha had known what was to come from the start and the inevitability of the consequences had scarcely felt like they mattered. Somewhere deep in her heart, she wants to feel that sureness again, and she wants it, against all her better judgement, with Beau. 

The poem starts its life as a list of observations, never meant to see the light of day. An attempt--seemingly futile, at first--to see  _ Beau.  _ Not all of her tricky, her walls and puzzles, the smoke and mirrors, but Beau herself. The things that keep pulling her in when everything else draws her away, the unstoppable magnetic force that seems to scream at her from somewhere inside of it all. 

It comes as a surprise when one day she looks it over and finds that not only is the list taking up an impossible amount of parchment now, but that it has formed itself into something of a love letter, the list of observations growing and changing over time, somehow without Yasha herself even realizing it, into a fully formed confessional. Reading it back she sees now what Jester sees, what her own heart sees, and one thing becomes abundantly clear: all the fighting has been worth it. 

She spends several hours poring over the list, writing and rewriting (and discovering that she sucks at poetry and will never do it again), until it transforms itself once again into something that is, perhaps, worth sharing. And then before she has time to analyze it further, she carefully selects a flower in the most brilliant cobalt blue she can find, presses it between the pages, and creeps down the hall to Beau's room, slipping the pages under her door. She considers standing there and waiting--the light is on, and she can hear Jester's soft voice--but instead she creeps back to her own room as quietly as she can, settles in her bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

A long, long time passes, so long that Yasha is certain that Beau is in the room laughing at her, at her terrible poetry and her flower and her  _ feelings _ . How stupid can one person be? To think, despite all the evidence that those things, those feelings and heartfelt words, would mean anything to a person like Beau? 

The anger bubbles up hot inside of her, and she wants to go demand her poem back. How stupid she was to think that Beau deserved to read those things, could appreciate them, even if they were true. And it's mixed with a kind of cold, painful guilt: she gave one of Zuala's flowers to her. How could she be so thoughtless with something so precious? She resolves that it won't happen again. Resolves that she won't waste another moment of her time on Beauregard Lionett, no matter what her heart tells her. 

In the end, she decides against going to demand the poem back, instead eventually falling into the depths of a black, dreamless sleep. 

She's awoken some time later by the feeling of something creating a depression on the bed next to her, curling into her side, but she knows it's Beau before her eyes have time to fully adjust to the darkness. 

"Did you mean it?" her soft voice asks in the dark. "All those things you wrote?" 

"Of course I did," Yasha replies, puzzled. "Why would I write them to you if they weren't true?" 

There's a long moment of silence, Beau tucked in close, and then she looks up, wordlessly cups Yasha's face with one small, strong hand, and presses their lips together. 

It catches Yasha off guard and she gasps, one hand coming to wrap around Beau's waist, holding her in place, the other coming to cover Beau's as she kisses back. 

It's Beau who breaks the kiss, looks up at Yasha with those blue eyes that Yasha feels can look right through you. "No one's ever--" she begins, and then tucks her face in against Yasha's chest. "No one's ever written me something like that before. No one's ever  _ said  _ anything like that before. I don't…" 

Yasha feels the words before Beau can speak them, and decides, simply, that she doesn't have to because they're not true. "What did I say?" she asks, voice low. Beau pauses. "You wouldn't write them if they weren't true," she says, after a moment. 

"Yes," says Yasha, gazing down at Beau, and for a moment it's like seeing her for the first time. Her hair is down, combed to the side and braided for sleep, and she's wearing her night clothes, an undershirt and soft silk pants. Without any of her defenses or her trappings, Yasha is aware for the first time how small she really is, how  _ vulnerable.  _ "I wouldn't write them if they weren't true, Beau." and then she leans down and kisses her again. 

This time kissing her is like tumbling into warm, soft grass. There's something sweet but frantic about it, The hand that had been cupping Yasha's face going to tangle in her hair, the hand that had been at Beau's waist moving to her ass, as though they've both been woken, ravenous, from a long slumber. 

And soon even that isn't enough, and with one surprisingly smooth motion, Yasha flips them both so that Beau is on her back on the bed and she's on top of her, pinning her with her knees. Beau's eyes widen and she grins, biting her lower lip. " _ Oh _ ," she says softly. "Well, okay." 

Yasha hesitates. "Is it okay?" 

Beau smirks, reaches up and pulls her down for a long, slow kiss. "It's way better than okay," she says when they finally break apart, and then: "will you be bossy again?" 

She says it in such a quiet, almost shy way that Yasha is momentarily taken aback, but when she recovers she grins wickedly. "How do you ask?" running her hands up Beau's sides under her shirt. 

Beau's head falls back against the bed, and Yasha feels like she's unlocked some wonderful, incredibly powerful secret. "Please," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

Instead of answering immediately, Yasha chooses instead to tug Beau's shirt off and then kiss her way down her throat, drawing her teeth over any spot that seems particularly sensitive in the interest of making Beau moan. It isn't until after she's drawn a little pattern with her tongue and teeth on one of Beau's nipples that she lifts her head and says, "Yes, but you'll be good and play by my rules." 

Beau bites her lip and squirms a little under her, like she's contemplating fighting it, and Yasha stops, leans up, pins Beau's hands above her head, looming. "You'll be good," she repeats, "and play by my rules." 

It's then that Beau goes limp like a ragdoll, cheeks flushed, bites her lip again. "Yes," she says in a soft voice, and Yasha likes that. Yasha likes that  _ a lot.  _

"Yes, mistress," she corrects, and Beau starts squirming again. 

"Mistress," she breathes. "Yes mistress." 

Yasha smirks, satisfied, and releases Beau's hands, making her way down her body with little kisses and nips. She makes short work of Beau's pants, and once they're off takes a moment to lean back and simply  _ look  _ at her. 

She's a work of art, all compact muscle and soft brown skin, her pubic hair glistening with damp. Yasha reaches up and cups one of her perfect breasts in her hand, looks at her reverently. "Beautiful," she murmurs, awestruck, and is pleased to be rewarded with a warm blush that creeps across Beau's cheeks and chest. 

From there she allows her hands to wander--to properly worship the goddess beneath her. Beau squirms beneath her, spreading her legs, her hands coming to run over Yasha's back, making soft little noises of arousal. Yasha takes her time, hands and lips moving over every inch of her, taking mental notes of the places that provoke the best reactions: little noises, involuntary jerks, nails digging into her back. When she reaches the junction of Beau's legs and bites down on one soft inner thigh, she is rewarded with a breathless "mistress" and smirks wickedly, drawing her tongue over the teeth marks before lifting her head to look up at her face. "Yes?" 

"Please," Beau pants. "Mistress. Please."

"Please what?" Yasha traces her fingers up Beau's thigh, hovers centimeters from her cunt. Beau's breath catches. "Touch me. Please." 

It's hard for Yasha to argue with that, with Beau dripping wet and asking so sweetly. She presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh again, fingers brushing against her clit before pressing inside, first one, then a second, her tongue against Beau's clit. Beau's hands clench in her hair, and Yasha glances up to see her with her head back against the pillow, eyes closed with pleasure. It makes Yasha hum with pleasure, too, curling her fingers, and Beau's hips jerk up. "Mistress," she says breathlessly, and Yasha beams, pausing only long enough to say "you're a good girl," before getting back to work, fucking her with her fingers, her tongue working her clit. Beau's hands are clenched in her hair and she's making all kinds of beautiful noises, noises that are serving only to turn Yasha on, too, her cunt heavy and aching with it. 

Yasha could have stayed there forever, and it seems altogether to soon when Beau's hands tighten in her hair and she looks up at Yasha with wild, desperate eyes. "I need to come," she says, voice soft. In this moment, Yasha realizes that Jester was right. All of Beau's sweetness and vulnerability and desperation to be loved and taken care of is suddenly right there in front of her. She seems suddenly, inherently breakable--but more than that, suddenly, inherently  _ loveable.  _ Yasha's breath catches. 

"Mistress, please," she continues, hands clenched desperately in her hair, her thighs shaking around Yasha's head. "I need to come, please, please can I come?" 

Yasha hesitates. Beau is powerless to her; she could drag this out as long as she wants, make her wait, make her beg until she can't take it anymore. But instead she smiles against Beau's clit and curls her fingers up just so. "Come for me," she instructs, and Beau does as she's told, coming unraveled under Yasha, sobbing her name, sobbing in general, her entire body shaking with the force of it. 

Yasha continues with her tongue and fingers until Beau finally pushes her head away, tugging her up frantically to kiss her hard. "Gods," she says breathlessly when they break away, pulling Yasha's head down to rest on her chest so that she could feel how hard her heart was pounding. "I don't think--I've never--nobody's--"

"I know," Yasha says softly, and somehow she does. 

They lay in silence for a few moments before Beau lifts her head, leans over and kisses Yasha's forehead. "Wanna make you feel good," she says softly. 

Yasha hesitates, but it's momentary. "Yes," she says, low and breathless, and Beau smirks, disentangling herself from Yasha's arms to straddle her, kissing her lips before making her way down her body. "Oh," she says, delighted, once she's between Yasha's legs. "You're so wet for me." 

"For you," Yasha echoes, because it's true. Beau did that to her, and it's all for her. 

"You're beautiful," Beau says, and there's a gentle softness to it, a softness that Yasha has never heard before. A softness that suggests that she means it. She reaches up, eyes never leaving Yasha's face, and takes down the tie holding her braid, letting her hair cascade around her shoulders. 

"Oh thanks," Yasha says, "I was thinking you were lacking in handholds." 

Beau laughs, and it's such a wonderful sound that Yasha wishes she could store it up for later. "Yeah I was," she says, and then before Yasha has time to fully process what's going on, Beau's head is between her legs, her tongue on her clit and her hands spreading her legs and there's nothing that matters more than that. 

Beau's tongue is talented and adept, and she somehow knows all the the ways to make Yasha clench her thighs and moan, hands tangled in that long, surprisingly soft hair. 

It isn't long before she's close, teetering on the edge, thighs shaking and hands pulling at Beau's hair. 

"That's it," Beau growls. "That's it, come for me." 

That's all it takes to push her over, gasping, Beau's name on her lips, her thighs clenching around her head as her vision goes black for a moment. 

She's still trembling and breathing hard as Beau crawls up beside her, tracing little patterns against her skin, kissing her--soft, sweet kisses accompanied by feather light touches. She wraps her arms around her, holds her close, kisses the top of her head. In this moment, suddenly, she feels safe. Cherished, protected.  _ Loved _ . But maybe more than that, Yasha feels like herself. And as she closes her eyes, drifting into a warm and dreamless sleep, she thinks that she's going to start collecting flowers for Beau now. 


End file.
